Lazarus 6 - ELEVEN: Shake Down

The next morning dawned bright and early and as much as I hate mornings, and wanted to sleep for another ten hours, we were operating against a shot clock. We had two days left until the Morrigan’s world-changing shindig, and we still didn’t know what exactly she was planning or how to put the kibosh on her nefarious bullshit. Which meant early mornings and work to get done. After a brief breakfast, we made a quick game plan, and set off for Seattle, where Wayland and Smith was headquartered. This time, I ditched Levi and Sullivan, leaving them behind with the Arch-Mage, Darlene, and Greg.

Sir Gal was also gone, checking in with the Lady Fate, which was too bad since the guy was decent to have in a pitch. Still, we’d make do.

I hated not having the extra man-power in case things went sideways—and they always went sideways, in my experience—but we needed some folks with some serious ass-kicking skills ready to throw down in case the Savage Prophet showed up for the Scion. And between Sullivan, Levi, Greg, and the Arch-Mage, there was a whole helluva lot of ass-kickery to go around. Greg and Darlene would run the security piece, Levi could take a hit like a champ, and Sullivan and Borgstorm had about three-hundred years combined magical experience under their belts. They could handle themselves from anything short of a full-on military assault.

That left me with, Ferraro, Winona, and Winona’s slick-talking Detective pal Chris. Besides, a smaller party would likely attract less attention. I wanted at all costs to avoid another shitstorm like the one we’d kicked off with Dagda and Lugh. I was willing to ruffle a few feathers if need be, but I didn’t want to start a war in the middle of downtown Seattle.

A quick trip to the Hub, followed by a ride in an old school taxi driven by a peacock-haired halfie, and we found ourselves stepping through a portal and into a narrow alleyway conventionally located about five blocks from where we needed to be.

That was one good thing about big cities like Seattle, there was always at least a few doorways to and from the Hub. Unfortunately, you couldn’t just cross over into the Hub from any old spot—it required finding a doorway, a thin spot, between worlds to step through the veil that kept Inward separated from Out. Sorta like subway station entrances. Most towns in American had at least one entrance within driving distance, but every major city had a host to pick from. Seattle and its surrounding areas had nine separate entrances, while places like Bangkok or LA were home to more than two dozen.

The trick to it was knowing where those stations were located and how to access them from Hub side, which could be dangerous as hell to the initiated.

But no one knew the station points better than Darlene and she’d mapped us a route that took us exactly where we wanted to be. She might not have been the greatest field asset in the Guild, but she was the best administrator, planner, and all-around know-it-all. And I meant that in a good way.

The alleyway was flanked on either side by the red brick walls of posh skyscrapers that housed over-priced apartments for city dwellers. I breathed in a deep whiff of air, savoring exactly how much better this place smelled than the Hub. It was big city, sure, but compared to the grimy tang and rancid aroma of cooking meat and body odor that always loitered in the Hub, this place practically smelled like a friggin’ Rose Garden. The alley dumped us out onto Cherry Street, which was alive with the hustle and bustle of early morning commuters and joggers, looking to get a workout in before the day started in earnest.

Off in the distance, the Space Needle reared up on spindly legs—its spire stabbing into the sky like a magnificent middle finger to the world—which told me we’d made it to the right place.

I’d never spent too much time out in Seattle, mostly on account of the miserable weather. Soggy, dark, and rain slickers galore. Pass. But aside from the disagreeable climate, Seattle was a great place. The scene was always happening, you could find live music just about anywhere you went, and there were tons of good coffee shops to grab some joe—even if the coffee purists were a little hoity-toity for my liking. Not to mention the beer. So much good beer, all churned out by the herd of microbrewers and hipsters that called the city home.

We hooked a left and headed west down Cherry and toward Elliot Bay, passing beneath the raised concrete roadway that was the 5.

About once a year, usually around late July or August, I liked to get up this way for a week or two and bathe in all the glorious seventy-degree heat, full of nice bright days. But I hadn’t been back here in a good long while. Not since Ferraro and I had ended up trekking through the Mist of Fate on a recovery mission into an alternate Time Lap. We’d unwittingly visited a future where a monstrous plague had wiped out the majority of humanity, while turning those who survived into pale, inhuman things. Creature’s that shuffled around on restless feet, staring at the world with undead eyes. Not quite zombies, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, but a distant relative.

That little trip through reality had been the first time we’d met Sir Gal, and it was also the closest I’d ever come to death—and I’m including the time I let a demon possess me before leaping down the throat of a hundred-foot tall death Naga. This was where that weaselly shit-heel of a bastard, Fast Hands Steve, had given me a belly full of lead before blasting through my kneecaps. God’s honest truth, I wouldn’t have survived at all, if not for Gal and the Holy Grail.

I shuddered just thinking about it. I still had nightmares occasionally, about that snake-faced son of a bitch standing over me, pistol in hand, while Ferraro struggled in the background.

Our morning stroll was bringing all those ugly feelings burbling right back up to the surface. All of this looked damned familiar. I mean, we weren’t walking the exactsame route we had last time, but we were definitely kicking around in the right neighborhood. I glanced at Ferraro and arched an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah, I agree.” She waved at the overpass, with its concrete pillars. “I remember passing under that last time, too. There were cars piled up near one of the off ramps. Burnt out husks filled with bodies.”

“What are the chances?” I asked. “Hogg was working out of Seattle, too, right? Engineering that damned virus?”

“Yeah,” she said grimly, eyes blazing. “We busted up his operation, but what if that wasn’t the end? The fact that it all connects is too much of a coincidence. I don’t know how exactly Wayland and Smith tie into this whole thing with the Morrigan, but there’s no way they’re just some innocent bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris said, “I’m not tracking, is there something else we should know about?”

“Old history, kid,” I said waving away his question. “Old history and bad memories. The important thing to know is these assholes might directly or indirectly have some sort of role in the death of humanity. Let’s go find out which…”

We hooked a right on 2nd and headed into a towering, blocky office building with beefy columns marching across the first level and pale cream terra cotta brick work covering its façade. An elaborate arched entry way and stylized tile accents gave the place the feel of weight and age. Of history. Something this garish had to be a product of the roaring twenties.

“I’ll take point here,” I said, adjusting my spelled leather jacket and double checking the rig riding under my arm. My hand cannon was tucked safely away, ready for action. Getting into a place like this with a weapon like that wouldn’t be easy, but I refused to leave home without it. And besides, what was the point of having an FBI agent on your squad if not to justify carrying around big ass weapons?

I pushed through the glass fronted door, emblazoned with the company’s logo—an inverted black triangle, with an off-center red dot and a pair black curved horns swooping up. Something about that symbol registered in the back of my mind, Déjà vu, though I couldn’t place it.

Pushing that thought away, I marched across the marble floor, doing my damnedest not to stare up at the arched ceiling covered in gold. Yep, definitely the roaring twenties. This place was impressive and filled with equally impressive looking folks in suits, all busily scurrying about, some carrying briefcases, others balancing thick, rolled up tubes that were likely blueprints. This was an architectural firm, after all. The fact that there was a Starbuck nestled away in the corner, serving out coffee to sharp-dressed businessmen and blurry-eyed interns, reminded me that no matter how impressive this place was, it would never be more impressive than a red dragon or a King of Hell.

I’d faced worse with less, and these corporate ass-kissers were about to get a taste of what I had on tap.

I strode up to the front desk, my posse spreading around me in an loose arc.

I instantly saw the thugs Greg had described, and he was right on point. Three of them, all built like pro MMA fighters, with high and tights and clean shaves. Former military for sure, and probably current contract mercenaries. They wore black Kevlar vests beneath slick suits with name plates. All very professional. But it wasn’t hard to see the bulges in their coats. Evidence of concealed weapons. And I’d bet dollars to donuts they had more firearms stashed away under the desk. These guys were hired muscle, ready to toss us out on our asses if we got uppity.

One of them was already taking urgently into an earpiece, his eyes trained on Winona and Chris. We’d been made, which wasn’t ideal, but at least it would save on awkward small talk.

I stopped at the desk, leaned forward, resting my forearms on the marble countertop, and gave them a nasty grin.

“Morning fellas,” I said with a nod. “I think you know why we’re here.”

“Yes,” came a voice from the back. A spark-plug of a man in an expensive suit strode out from the nearby elevators. “Obviously, you’re here to cause more trouble.” He pushed his way behind the desk and shooed the guards out of the way with a death glare and a flick of his wrist. The guards all stood head and shoulders taller than this guy, but they moved for him like he was rabid bear that might attack at the drop of a hat. He was older—late forties or early fifties—with a strong jaw and hard eyes behind black frame glasses. He might’ve been a corporate paper pusher, but this guy was also a shark.

“Mr. Kempf,” Chris said cordially, shooting the man a nod.

“Detective Fuller,” he sneered in return. “And I see you brought your friend with you. What was it again, Winona the physic investigator? I think that what she called herself.”

“No, Medicine Woman,” Winona corrected cheerfully, not realizing he was being sarcastic.

“Ah, yes. Right. The medicine woman. And who else have you brought along today, hmm? From the looks of it, another small town cop”—he dismissed Ferraro with a sniff and an eyeroll—“and a wash-up carnival operator,” he said, giving me a once over. That would’ve been a pretty sick burn if not for the fact that I loved traveling carnivals. I would be so lucky to end up a carney.

“Try the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Ferraro said, pulling aside the lapel of her tasteful suit jacket and flashing her badge. Just long enough to see the thing was real, but not long enough for them to get her name.

“God, you people are already getting as bad as though protected lands activists that are always bothering us,” Kempf said, eyes narrowing. “And I don’t care what department or agency you’re with. As I told your dull-witted colleges, if you have any legal questions you can talk to our lawyer—who will bury you with injunctions, extensions, and discovery requests. It’ll be years before you ever make any progress.” He leaned forward, a malicious gleam in his eyes. “So, unless you have a warrant,” he said quietly, “you can kindly see yourself out.”

Ferraro’s jaw tightened and I knew she didn’t have anything else in her hand. We’d hoped to bluff our way in, this asshole had called, and now we didn’t have anything else.

Well, except one thing… Me.

I couldn’t do any overt displays of magic, but I didn’t need anything overt for what I was thinking. No, my real weapon, as usual, would be my big fat mouth.

I embraced the Vis and wove invisible, hair-fine strands of fire and air to enhance my words. “Oh, so what you’re saying”—the sound erupted off the golden domed ceiling, carrying through the lobby—“is that we can go through your lawyers about a possible FBI investigation into corruption and domestic terrorism. Wait, excuse me.” I raised my hands in apology. “Alleged corruption and domestic terrorism.”

Everyone had stopped moving, and an unnatural hush had fallen over the room. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that one of the baristas at Starbuck had a phone out and was recording. “It would be much easier if we could just talk to someone higher up in the chain of command. I’m sure these allegations of weapons racketeering are baseless, but it would be terrible if that got out to the media or leaked to your shareholders.”

Kempf leaned forward and bared his teeth at me in defiance. “We will sue you for liable. Bury you in paperwork. Take every asset. Even the sideshow you clearly travel with won’t have you.”

I laughed in his face, cutting off the flow of my power. “You think I give two shits about a lawsuit?” I dropped my voice low. “Just look at me.” I gestured to the rough leather jacket and the dusty blue jeans. “Do I look like a guy who’s afraid of losing his stuff. Try it. But you… Now, you look like a guy who has something to lose, and I can stand here and make sure everyone in this lobby knows about it. Or you can show us upstairs, to somewhere a little more private. We just want five minutes with Wayland.”

Kempf’s eyes narrowed in thought, but he didn’t say no. “I can’t offer you Mr. Wayland. No one sees him. I’ve never seen if. But I can take you to Mr. Smith. That’s the end of it, though. No more visits, no more harassment.”

“Scouts honor,” I said, though I’d never been a Scout.

“Fine. Right this way,” he growled, before nodding at the rent-a-thugs in their Kevlar and suits.

The five of us rode up to tenth floor on an oversized elevator—though I was a little nervous about the groans and creaks it was making. Probably because we had a friggin’ Sasquatch onboard with us. She mighta looked human, but that didn’t mean she was human. All that mass didn’t just disappear—conservation of mass was still a thing—so like Levi, her bulk must’ve been compressed down. I bet she still clocked in at seven or eight hundred pounds.

Kempf showed us to a beautiful corner office with a drop-dead gorgeous view of the city. The name plate on the door read, Jonathan Smith, C.O.O. Expensive looking bookcases lined the walls, filled with leather bound tomes with gold titles carefully lettered onto the spines. One side of the room was taken up by an elaborate drafting table, with various schematics and glossy high-res photos hanging on the wall. Smith himself waited for us behind a sleek desk with an artificial smile plastered firmly in place.

“That will be all, Mr. Kempf,” he said, dismissing the grumpy middleman with a simple nod.

“Of course, Mr. Smith.” He turned then lingered. “Should I contact security, sir? Have them on standby?”

“No, no. I’m sure that won’t be necessary, now will it, Mr. Lazarus?”

His words felt like a gut punch.

“Let’s hope not,” I replied, no letting the fact that he knew who I was ruffle my feathers. “I’ll do my best not to blow anything up or set anything on fire.”

Kempf’s jaw clenched, but he turned and left, shutting the door with a soft click.

“I’m afraid you’re going to give poor Kempfa brain aneurysm. He’s not like us, you know,” Smith said. “He’s not in the know. Now, what can I help you with today, hmm?”

“Since you’re in the know, you should already know what we want,” Ferraro said, crossing her arms. “Details on RavenStar Holding. On the project your working on down in South Africa. The one you’ve been building around the clock for five months.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” He smiled politely and folded his hands on his sleek desk. “Obviously, there’s no point in denying that we’re in business with a mutual acquaintance of yours. Ms. Morrigan. But I’m afraid, I’m going to be a bit of a dry well, beyond that. Admittedly, RavenStar Holdings is one of our largest clients, but that project has been overseen by Mr. Wayland personally. True, we have worked with local labors and provided engineers, surveyors, foremen, skill tradesman, and inspectors, but the actual details are shrouded in mystery, I’m afraid.”

“So you mean to tell me you have no idea what you’re building?” I asked, incredulous.

“No more than you yourself,” he replied placidly. “No more than anyone other than Ms. Morrigan and Mr. Wayland, I’m afraid. You see he is the principal architect on the project. No one has seen the blueprints, save for him and presumably the client. He disperses orders through the site foremen, but no one has a full picture of what is happening down there. Moreover, he rotates the crews every three weeks, so no one can put too much together. I know as much as you.” He spread his hands in apology. “Perhaps less, considering your resources and connections.”

I wanted to scream and shout. To punch a hole right in his smarmy face and then set this fancy building on fire. The only problem was, I believed him. That sounded exactly like the Morrigan. She hated relying on others and when she had to trust others out of necessity, she always ensured there were as few loose ends as possible.

“So where can we find Mr. Wayland?” Ferraro said, sensing my obvious agitation.

Smith sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that either. Although Mr. Wayland does have a penthouse office at this location, he rarely uses it. And that was before this job. I haven’t seen him in person since we broke ground. He sends me encrypted email correspondence twice a week from an undisclosed black site location. For all intents and purposes, he is a ghost. I will admit that I don’t understand everything that is going on here. I am, what your people refer to as a Rube, I believe. But I know that this is a dead-end.”

He pulled out a business card, embossed with the company’s logo and his name sprawled across the front. In neat precise script he jotted down a phone number.

“That’s for my personal cell. If you think of any other questions, I’ll be only too happy to answer. But perhaps a call instead of an in person visit next time, hmm? I wouldn’t want to put poor Kempf through anymore—the man has a terrible heart. He’ll blow a gasket if you show up unannounced again. Now, if you have nothing else, I have a great deal of work left to do today.”

I snatched the card, shoved it in my pocket, then turned on a heel and headed for the door.

Well shit. Another dead end and we were running out of time.